Crimsons skies backing cries,
Of broken summers pain,
Once again called to march,
On baron brunt out plains,
Thrust the steel horse,
At the enemy forward march,
Oil smoke pitch I wish to vomit,
Gasp as I choke blood stained,
Corpses lay to high under toe,
If I am the last victim,
Please do not make it so.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem